In January 1968, British science fiction writer Arthur C. Clarke wrote to Science magazine to articulate what would become the third and final principle of his now famous “three laws”, a set of observations about technology, discovery, and humanity’s relationship to them. In this, the most famous of the three adages, Clarke stated: “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

Starting Early

Fast forward thirty-two years, I’m six years old, and I’ve invited myself round to a friend’s house under the pretence of a sleepover.

In reality, I was there because I knew he owned a PlayStation.

Up to that point, I’d only ever had a passing relationship with videogames. A friend’s birthday party here, playing pinball on the family PC there; but outside of that, my chances to play had been slim to none.

After some debate, we settled on the latest addition to his collection: a game called Action Man: Destruction X. We slid the disc into the tray, the CRT flickered to life, and then, the sonic boom etched into the skulls of millennials the world over.

After negotiating a menu screen and the opening cutscene, the television gave way to the game itself. There was my childhood hero rendered in glorious, pixelated form - equipped with only a boomerang - facing off against a Tyrannosaurus Rex in what felt like a chasmic arena. Now, I don’t wish to be hyperbolic, but at that admittedly early point in my life, this was easily one of the coolest things I’d ever seen. To me, it was indistinguishable from magic.

Why Videogames?

It didn’t matter that the game was clunky, borderline incoherent and, on reflection, somewhat shit. What mattered was the feeling: the sense of discovery, imagination, and possibility that videogames offered in a way nothing else quite did. That moment set the tone for a lifelong relationship with games, a medium in which I could explore entire worlds built with care, craft, and creativity.

But somewhere along the way, something curdled.

If I really interrogate why I still play videogames, I’d say that they’re a way for me to reconnect with that younger version of myself, a window I can slip through to retrieve some of the wonder that came so freely in childhood, but which adulthood takes too readily. Games still do that for me, but increasingly, the culture which surrounds them seems determined to crush it.

Gamerhate

It’s not hard to see why. Today, social platforms shape much of the conversation we have about games, and those sites - Twitter, Reddit, YouTube - are designed first and foremost to reward engagement, not understanding. Invariably, then, nuance doesn’t travel; anger does, and in gaming spaces, that anger metastasises quickly.

The depressing part is that the warning signs have been there for over a decade. Flashpoint moments like Gamergate didn’t mark the advent of toxicity in games; they marked its industrialisation, with harassment campaigns masquerading as “consumer advocacy,” sustained abuse directed at developers and critics, and a lasting lesson learned by bad actors in the community - outrage is profitable. Later crossroads, like the backlash to The Last of Us Part II, followed the same template: review bombing, death threats, and petitions demanding creative works be rewritten to better align with audience entitlement. These moments matter, but not because they’re shocking. They matter because they’re no longer exceptions.

Where Things Stand in 2026

This pernicious behaviour is a dime a dozen today. A studio’s creative decisions are pre-emptively litigated on social media before a game even releases - for example, Bungie’s Marathon hasn’t even been released yet, and it’s already being dissected and denounced online. Developers don’t have to worry about abuse; they expect it. Marginalised players quietly disengage, not because they don’t love games, but because the surrounding culture keeps reminding them they’re not welcome. The question, then, is simple: is this the culture we want to exist within, at a time when games are pushing the medium further than ever?

Videogames today are more ambitious, more expressive, and more artistically confident than they’ve ever been. Yet the way we talk about them, publicly, performatively, online, has grown smaller, meaner, and more caustic. Games are treated less like shared experiences and more like battlegrounds where identity, politics, and personal grievance collide.

Assmongold

I’d like to apologise in advance for this next example. Earlier this week, my Twitter algorithm served up this little gem for my viewing displeasure. Go watch it, I’ll wait…

Now, to me, Asmongold is amongst the worst offenders in turning our modern gaming culture into such a poisonous place. In this clip, he neatly illustrates why. Here is a prominent streamer, with a sizeable audience, openly expressing a willingness to make the lives of strangers more difficult on a whim, and framing it as entertainment. There is no insight here, no critique, no value, just spite, amplified by a platform that rewards it.

Asmongold is not a thought leader, a cultural authority, or a policymaker. He is a Twitch streamer whose influence far outweighs the responsibility he shows in wielding it. And every time his behaviour is normalised, rewarded, or defended, the culture around games becomes a little more hostile, more fractured, and less worth participating in.

Superbold

If you’ll allow me to zoom out further for a moment, this behaviour isn’t confined to games; it reflects a broader pattern playing out across society in general. Just this past weekend, Bad Bunny performed at the Super Bowl LX halftime show, and I’ve watched as some of the world’s pre-eminent grifters and walking, talking human mudslides have used this not as an opportunity to widen their world, but instead to foment hatred along national and ethnic lines.

It’s tempting to dismiss this as a “bad fans” problem. It isn’t. It’s a systemic one.

Platform incentives reward outrage. Algorithms flatten complexity. Identity becomes tribal. Disagreement turns instantly into moral failure. In that environment, games stop being art to engage with and become symbols to defend or destroy. The loudest voices dominate, not because they’re representative, but because they’re profitable.

This all has consequences; not abstract ones, but real, human costs. Developers burn out or leave the industry entirely. Players self-censor or withdraw. The medium’s public reputation is shaped not by its best work, but by its ugliest behaviour. It only makes it easier for traditional media to dismiss videogames as immature or unserious, and why shouldn’t they when the culture surrounding them seems so allergic to reflection?

What Next?

This is the part where I’m supposed to present a solution. I don’t have one. Not a clean one, anyway. But I do know what I want.

I want a gaming culture that remembers games are made by people, that creative risk isn’t betrayal, that discomfort isn’t failure, that art doesn’t owe us validation, only honesty. I want conversations that prioritise curiosity over condemnation, and criticism that engages with craft rather than identity.

Most of all, I want us to reclaim the magic that drew so many of us here in the first place. With that in mind, I’ve compiled a list to help move the needle back to a more acceptable, more human place, a ruleset that I like to call…

Ten Rules for Being Less Awful About Videogames

1. Remember that games are made by people - Not brands, not avatars, not targets. Real people with finite time, energy, and feelings. If you wouldn’t say it to their face, don’t post it.
2. Disliking a game is not a moral position - You didn’t like the story. Fine. You hated the mechanics. Valid. That does not make you enlightened, betrayed, or oppressed.
3. Criticism is not the same thing as harassment. Learn the difference - “This didn’t work for me” is criticism. Dogpiling, threats, doxing, or abuse dressed up as “feedback” is cowardice, nothing more.
4. Art is allowed to challenge you, frustrate you, or leave you cold - A game failing to meet your expectations does not mean it has failed outright. Sometimes the work isn’t bad, and challenging you was the point.
5. Stop treating developers as customer service reps - Buying a game does not entitle you to control its creative direction, rewrite its story, or demand it be remade to suit your tastes.
6. Engagement is not truth - The loudest take on Twitter or YouTube is rarely the smartest one. Algorithms reward outrage, not insight. Don’t confuse virality with validity.
7. Gatekeeping kills communities - There is no “correct” way to enjoy games. If your instinct is to test someone’s credentials before welcoming them, look inward.
8. Punch up, not down, or better yet, don’t punch at all - Mocking the corporations that pick apart the industry is fair game. Harassing individuals, especially marginalised ones, is not rebellion; it’s cruelty.
9. Log off when you’re angry - You don’t owe the internet your worst impulse. No take is so urgent that it can’t wait until you’ve cooled off.
10. Protect the thing you love - If you care about games as art, act like it. That means curiosity over contempt, empathy over entitlement, and remembering why games felt like magic in the first place.

When all is said and done, I’d like to leave you with this.

In Blood, Sweat, and Pixels, Jason Schreier recounts a conversation he was having with a developer, after hearing about a gruelling production cycle, “Sounds like a miracle that this game was even made.”

“Oh, Jason,” the developer replied. “It’s a miracle that any game is made.”

I wish the people who claim to love games remembered that.

One of the most important parts of history is the rise and fall of the various dynasties littered across cultures. As empires come and go, the families atop these governments become staples, immortalized in culture through the arts, coming in the form of sculptures, books, and of course, video games.  

Old World, the 2022 grand strategy game from developer Mohawk Games, features interesting innovations on the nation-building game formula. Rather than offering a selection of global nations, it focuses its sights on the diverse cultures that made up the Ancient Mediterranean. From here, each of these civilizations has multiple leaders to choose from, influential in the culture's development, and with a family to follow them throughout history. Each of these leaders is different, offering players a variety within each different nation to begin their dynasty. While each culture has its own hallmark research topics and structures, the starting characters and decisions that follow propel the events of this narrative-driven strategy game.  

In my playthrough, I began my journey as “Pericles the Founder," a versatile statesman and founder of Greece, married to Queen Consort Aspasia, who, for some reason, was already upset with me. I focused on trapping as my initial research to take advantage of the resources around Athenai, the capital of what would be Greece, and set off into this new world. It only took a year for me to realize why Aspasia was disgruntled with me – pregnancy will make anyone irritable. In an effort to please my unhappy wife, I chose to name our newborn daughter after her, born in the second year of our nation's founding.  

Old World has some familiar trappings of the strategy simulation genre. I can eventually become governor of my capital or offer the role up to somebody else in my court, the former bolstering my city's development. As I take the job with honor, it's only two years later that I become “Pericles the Settler,” with the foundation of Trapezus, the second settlement under my control. It's also worth noting that the years of Old World are depicted as "Year One" and so on, rather than having an assigned year or date. 

The key actors of this game always seem to bring something with them, turning the pages of your nation's history with their own stories. Leonidas enters Greece with his knowledge of civil government to help propel us forward to a modern civilization. Sappho is exiled after a political scandal, allowed to roam freely in other lands, and eventually joins a rival family. Cultists are found living in ruins on a hill near a mountain range, and I allow them to continue their worship and even put up a shrine in what is now my land.

The daughter who soured my wife's mood towards me in the early years has finally turned 10, meaning it's time I formally teach her about the world. It's here that I must confess that my knowledge of world history is limited – it's been quite some time since I've been graded on my ability to remember dates and why they matter, and I was only ever so good at that anyway. I took the time outside the game to glance at who Pericles was when he was alive, and thus decided to teach Aspasia about commerce so she could go down a similar path as an Orator.  

My time as a Grecian statesman comprised my first playthrough, and while I've managed a handful of other nations since then, I found that this first endeavor into Old World was more narratively fruitful. My first mistake would ring out through the rest of my playthrough – not knowing how to manage my money. Where Greece had been making some small profits for Years 1-12, it hadn't been enough to hire a philosopher to the court that my wife wished for. Her opinion of me soured more, yet I would not give up any of our resources. In a sort of irony, my daughter would ask me about a situation with money. Since Pericles isn't wise enough to tell her that money isn't everything, I tell her that she can spend money with her friends however she pleases, and this decision would set her on a path from which I could not save her. 

Old World is made of ebbs and flows, bouncing gameplay developments with characters and stories that will throw a wrench into things. By Year 24, King Pericles the Pioneer turns ill. Rather than ride out my golden years sick and on the throne, I abdicate the throne to my daughter. Remember how earlier I told her she could spend her money with her friends as she pleases? That lesson alone formed her into a lackadaisical sort of person, and as an adult, she's become an alcoholic. The first thing she does is remove the cult of Aphrodite, those who have been dwelling in the mountains since before our arrival; their religion is gaining too much influence over the city. To make matters worse, we've been at war with foreign invaders for a few years now. I, as Pericles, lived a taxing life, and I can't help but feel guilty for my ignorance. Maybe my wife was right about that philosopher after all.  

By the 33rd year, Aspasia had brought many positive developments to the throne. The neighboring Danes offered their leader, Rorik, to be her husband in an effort to unify the countries, and he sits on the throne as King Consort. Through this, it's discovered that the people of Carthage have been spying on Aspasia, and their agent is dispatched expeditiously. Where Pericles' time was focused on building a nation, Aspasia's era is to make the people of Greece happy and safe as we advance towards the future. Only a year later, Rorik and Aspasia give birth to Arisonoe, and in a similar fashion, the throne still can't afford to hire a philosopher to the court. 

Some of the narrative events of Old World can feel more random than others, harder to pinpoint their causes. From a narrative standpoint, combining self-prescribed ideas with flavorful text that drives the concepts home, Pericles' sickness comes and goes while his daughter is on the throne. He's healthy again the year she takes over and only gets sick again towards the end of his lifespan while he's back in the political seat as governor of Athenai.

In the early 40s, things continue to take a turn for the worse. War erupts across the country from both the people of Carthage and Persia. Our lack of military might holds us back as we scrounge up soldiers, but governors in the cities fall ill and perish as well or simply make poor decisions. In Year 44, only a year after the passing of Pericles, Aspasia is doomed, sick, and close to death, and Arisnoe is only 10 years old. 

In Year 45, disaster falls. Both the King and Queen die from their illnesses as war ensues on Greece's borders. Arisnoe is still just a child, so a court member arrives to take the throne until she turns 18. By year 52, Arisnoe has been raised as an orphan during nearly a decade-long war with Carthage. Rather than pursuing commerce like her mother, she learns military training, the last chance to stop the nation from collapsing. As she turns 18, Polyxena, the regent queen dies of a sudden illness, making way for Arisnoe. As the 50s arrive, city after city falls to barbarians from the south and Carthaginian soldiers from the north. First, Trapezus. Then Thebes. Then Argos. At 25-years-old, Arisnoe takes to the battlefield in Corinth, and in an insane twist of fate, she's spared from death after being rescued by one of her soldiers and returns to the capital. It doesn't take long before Athenai falls to constant attacks.  

In my story, Greece is a nation that couldn't make it to a century, with three rulers to take the throne, each bearing the sins of the last. An unwise settler, a listless queen, a daughter forged in war. When I play strategy games like this, or games in the Civilization series, I tend to go with the flow, making decisions on the fly and doing whatever feels natural. While this isn't optimal, Old World rewarded that behavior with a developing story.  

I've started new playthroughs in Old World a handful of times since this initial story, and each of them has been different. No two rulers have been the same, nor have their developing moments and national impacts. Each war has demanded something different, each bloodline resonates with different ideals, and each story branch has led to something new. 

For a long time now, I’ve thought about ways to transcribe my playthroughs in nation-building games, opting to recount the events as if they were going into a history textbook. The issue I’ve found with this, after multiple attempts, is that the focal point of a nation isn’t gripping when a face isn’t attached to it. Where other games draw on distinct historical figures that work as gameplay mechanics rather than characters, Old World bridges the gap through story developments that act as motivators for gameplay.  I applaud Old World for its ability to weave story and gameplay in a way that the historical strategy genre has very much inspired its players, and very clearly benefits from.

Prologue: The Sole Survivor’s Choice (2287)

The wind howled across the ruined streets of Boston. Radiation still seeped from the fissures of the old world, and yet life clung stubbornly to the cracked asphalt. You, the Sole Survivor, stood atop the Institute’s tower, looking down at a city that had long forgotten hope.

For decades, the Institute had been humanity’s shadow: kidnappings, secret replacements, and cold experiments hidden beneath layers of technology. But now, as its new Director, you could change everything.

“No more hiding. No more taking. No more fear,” you muttered, feeling the weight of centuries of potential resting on your shoulders.

Synths approached, curious, wary — the first of their kind granted true autonomy. And in the deepest labs, scientists turned to you, some doubtful, others hesitant. The path ahead would be long, and dangerous.

Chapter 1: Seeds of Integration (2287–2310)

At first, progress was fragile. The Railroad watched suspiciously. The Brotherhood patrolled overhead, their iron fists poised for judgment. Settlers whispered fears in the streets.

But small victories grew. Synth-human unions produced the first hybrids — children with minds sharper than humans, bodies resilient to radiation, and the faint glow of promise in their eyes. Ghouls stabilized under Institute care, finding purpose rather than persecution. Even super mutants learned to temper their aggression with guidance.

The Commonwealth began to hum with life again, as old wounds slowly stitched themselves together. It was a fragile hope, but hope nonetheless.

Chapter 2: A New Civilization (2310–2400)

Decades passed. The Commonwealth transformed. Cities rose from the ashes. Hybrids became a cultural force, their existence bridging humanity and technology. Settlers learned to trust synths, and mutants and ghouls found their place in society.

The Institute shared its knowledge openly: medical breakthroughs, radiation-safe crops, and clean water systems. Ethical science became the foundation of governance.

Then, the eyes of humanity turned skyward. Star charts, cryogenic experiments, and spaceship prototypes filled the labs. The once-feared Institute was now the architect of humanity’s survival — not just in the wasteland, but in the stars themselves.

Chapter 3: Preparing to Leave (2400–2450)

Earth was healing, but slowly. Climate instability, lingering radiation, and centuries of neglect left large swaths of the planet uninhabitable. The ethical choice became unavoidable: leave or perish.

Debates raged across the Commonwealth. Extremists argued that humanity’s soul was tied to Earth. The hybrids, synths, and ethical humans argued for survival among the stars. Your reforms now reached beyond the surface — they became a blueprint for civilization itself.

Starships were built. Terraforming research commenced. Humanity would not repeat the mistakes of the past.

Chapter 4: Exodus (2450–2500)

The first generation of ships lifted from the Commonwealth, carrying humans, hybrids, synths, ghouls, and stabilized mutants. Families waved from settlement walls as the last engines roared skyward.

The Sole Survivor’s vision had endured: a society built on ethics, cooperation, and foresight. Earth remained as a caretaker planet for a few, but the stars awaited humanity’s next chapter.

Epilogue: Among the Stars (2600+)

Centuries later, Earth was barren — a silent testament to the choices of the past. Cities lay in ruins, oceans reclaimed their course, and radiation painted the scars of old wars across continents.

Above, humanity thrived. Hybrids led colonies on distant planets, their intelligence and resilience shaping new societies. Synths administered vast networks of interstellar infrastructure. Ghouls and mutants found niches where their strength and adaptability were assets, not liabilities.

In the quiet of orbit, one could still imagine the Commonwealth — its rebuilt settlements, its gardens of radiation-resistant crops, its streets where synths and humans once walked side by side. The choices of one survivor had echoed across centuries, turning a shattered Earth into the cradle of a multi-species civilization.

And somewhere among the stars, the legacy of the Sole Survivor lived on, a whisper across light-years:

“Even from the ashes, we rise. Even from a broken world, we reach the stars.”

Being a collector can mean many things. Most associate physical media collecting with geeks surrounded by bookshelves of video games that will never get played. Others will hold five PlayStation games in their hands and feel just as much pride in their collection, however small it may be. We hold on to our discs and cartridges even today, as they hold the memories of our experiences. In some cases, an actual memory card holds the record of an actual beautiful memory associated with the game. Whether it's the game that had a best friend coming to your house every day over a blistering summer or the game that finally got your parent to enjoy your favorite hobby with you, only a physical copy will hold those memories.

Displayed below are artifacts held dear by our SUPERJUMP writers, and the memories they contain.

Nathan Kelly

I present my copy of the Wii version of The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. I remember my first experience with this game. I was at the house of one of my mom's friends as a kid, and I didn’t have too many people to hang out with at the time. I was just eating some party snacks or something, and upon entering the living room, they had a copy of Twilight Princess just sitting on their Wii. Immediately, I was sold by the foil art cover. Being a PlayStation kid, I had no idea what The Legend of Zelda even was at the time, but I had only ever seen two other boxes that looked nearly as good as this one: Kingdom Hearts and Kingdom Hearts 2, my favorite games ever at the time.

My family had a Wii that they had bought, hoping that it would get the kids up and moving (still a highlight of that console and something that the Switch has mostly left behind). I went to my dad and practically begged him for a copy of Twilight Princess, which he insisted that I would have to pay for myself. I used a collection of roughly 1,200 US nickels that a grandparent had given me at the time. I felt bad about this trade for a number of years. But as I grew older, I never gained an appreciation for coin collecting, so the only regret I still have over this is paying back my dad in a rather annoying currency.

I was so excited to actually have the game in my hands as I eagerly popped it into my Wii. I played through the opening village and admittedly ran into a problem. Like many others at the time, I was too confused by the opening village area to actually trigger the events to go on the rest of the adventure. In my defense, you have to get a cat to follow you by fishing and then get it to chase you around; It was cryptic for a child. I put it down for a while, but eventually my dad came to me and mentioned how we went through such a hassle trading nickels for a game that I didn’t even play. This got me to actually sit down and play through the rest of the game, and I’m glad I did. The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess is the greatest Nintendo action RPG I’ve ever played, and I doubt that I’ll ever trade it away.

Mike Wilson

It can be incredibly challenging to name your favorite game when someone asks you to do so. In theory, this is something that could always be changing. If you’re a massive fan of the Zelda franchise, you know there will always be the next one coming, and it has a chance of supplanting your past favourite. But when someone asks about your most important game ever, well, that’s something else. We’re talking not just preferences, but something more meaningful and tangible, something that is part of your gaming history.

Historically, I’m a Nintendo nerd. Raised on Hylian princesses, Italian plumbers, and Kongs called Donkey, I had an incredible upbringing in the gaming world.

So it’s a huge surprise, even to me, that perhaps my most important game is, in fact, Virtua Tennis on the Dreamcast.

I was Nintendo through and through. I always got to play on my friend’s Mega Drive, but at no point did I ever consider it superior to my SNES. Then SEGA threw a curveball and released the futuristic (for its time) Dreamcast. Incredible 3D graphics, amazing CD-quality sound, access to the internet, and still my favourite little thing, the VMU.

Being the underfunded young man I was when I bought the Dreamcast, I wasn’t able to pick up many games. I obviously had to buy the Blue Blur in his first mainline 3D outing in Sonic Adventure, but outside of that, I didn’t have anything else.

Thankfully, there was the Official Dreamcast Magazine (ODM) here in the UK, and for the first time as a gamer, I was able to play demo discs. As an owner of the N64, I was always jealous of other console users with their demo discs from magazines, and now here I was, doing it myself; incredibly exciting times for this Nintendo fanboy.

ODM issue 17 gave us Dream On Volume 18, consisting of two videos of upcoming games and four demos for me to enjoy: Sega Extreme Sports, Dave Mirra Freestyle BMX, Ducati World, and, most bizarrely, my most important game, a demo of Virtua Tennis.

As with a lot of SEGA games at the time, it was a port of their arcade version from 1999, but it now allowed multiplayer madness in the home. I didn’t have a clue about this or the arcade version at the time, and I didn’t care; I was just excited to play something new that wasn’t Sonic.

And play I did; I enjoyed choosing one of the then-famous players and seeing who I felt was more accommodating to my play style. I enjoyed playing a best-of-three sets with the computer, and I absolutely loved playing with and dominating my friends.

Just to prove how incredible the VMU was, as you played the game, there would be a little matchstick equivalent of the game happening on the screen of the VMU. Who needed a massive TV with incredible graphics when you have a tiny pocket-sized one that does the same damned thing?

This demo of Virtua Tennis was exciting, fluid, and just simply fun. It wasn't overly complicated and was so easy to just jump right into, even if you were a novice. This game kept me engaged with the Dreamcast; it kept the system alive while I saved up for an actual new game or waited for something for my birthday. 

It seems bizarre that this bite-sized demo, of all things, I consider to be my most important game, but I see it as something that truly opened up my gaming mind to things outside of just Nintendo. It taught me that even the simplest of things can be engaging and provide hours of smile-producing fun. 

To this day, I always make sure to get the latest system from each company so that I can play all games from across all the systems. Although Nintendo had my heart from the early days, SEGA stole it from them right at the end.

Eventually, I was able to get Shenmue, and my word, did this really make the Dreamcast my most beloved console of all time. But whereas Shenmue made me fall in love with the Dreamcast, it was this small demo of Virtua Tennis that made me fall in love with gaming beyond Nintendo.

PJ Walerysiak

I was declared a traitor by my brother and cousins when I bought myself a PlayStation back in the early 2000s. We were a Nintendo family; how dare I turncoat for a competing console?!

It wasn’t a desire to forsake Nintendo that drove me towards buying a PS1, for I would always love them. It was a desire to have something of my own. The Super Nintendo and N64 belonged to my older brother, and he would regularly exercise his dictatorship over their use. Being seven years younger, I could do little to stop him.

I eventually saved up enough money from my paper route and made the leap. I bought a PS1, Crash Bandicoot, and Final Fantasy 7. I had never experienced a game like FF7 before, so ripe with deep narrative and heavy themes, somewhat beyond what my eleven-year-old brain could fully comprehend.

There was a story here far beyond saving the princess/realm/universe, complete with characters whom I bonded with over dozens of hours. It felt like I had discovered a vital element that I was missing before. I needed more!

I immediately became hooked on RPGs, especially Final Fantasy. I devoured FF8, then FF9. When I saw Final Fantasy Tactics in the store one day, I bought it without a second thought.

And once again, a veil was lifted from my adolescent brain, revealing to me an incredibly detailed medieval fantasy world of political intrigue, class warfare, treachery, and sacrifice. Characters had their naivety laid bare, their values challenged and demonstrated through combat. Systems of government and economics were exposed and torn apart through sharp rhetoric. Again, I could not grasp the full depth of its arguments, but it felt profound even then, as if the lessons buried within were relevant to life and I could hopefully decode them someday.

All of this was built upon the most foreign game design I had ever encountered. Every game I had picked up until then felt intuitive, even if I blasted through tutorials. With youthful hubris, I reckoned myself smart enough to figure this game out quickly.

Boy, was I WRONG.

Why were my attacks missing so often?!! Why couldn’t I move my character as far on this grid as the enemy could? Did that guy just destroy my armor? What the heck!!! I gave the protagonist the same birthday as me, but why in the world did that matter?

I shelved FFT for a few months, frustrated after being confronted with my own naivety and defeated so soundly in Dorter Trade City time after time.

But it had a hold on me, pulling at me to give it another shot. So I resolved to take the time to learn. Thus, a lifelong love of this game was born, and I learned a lesson about my own capacity. I hadn’t realized that a game could teach me more about myself.

I got my best friend to try it out, and he enjoyed it just the same. In future sleepovers, I would bring my PS1 over and we would play FFT literally all night, trading the controller in 3-hour shifts. The person not playing would either catch up on sleep or help the other as a consulting tactician.

I would go back to play FFT every few years and found that each time the story and its themes hit me in a new way. Even today, as I’m playing through the recently released Final Fantasy Tactics: The Ivalice Chronicles, I’m taking screenshots of lines of dialogue that feel FAR too relevant to today’s political atmosphere and class inequality.

When I think back, attempting to pinpoint what games were pivotal in stoking my love of storytelling and desire to write, FFT is chief among them. FF7 may have opened my eyes, but FFT opened my mind and continues to do so today.

Young PJ would be happy to know that I finally understand everything that this wonderful game offers and all that it has given me.

Jahanzeb Khan

More than any of the latest, increasingly expensive gaming tech, Atari has been responsible for rekindling my love for video games and their rich history. The launch of the + Platform really opened the door for both lapsed gamers and newcomers to connect with Atari's history. Both the 2600+ and the 7800+ consoles are designed to play nearly all cartridges right out of the box. Not only the old cartridges that are out in the wild, but even modern homebrew releases from publishers like Atari Age. Atari themselves have even been commissioning and publishing new releases, not just reprinting their legacy software but even brand new ports, such as the recent 7800 port of Tiger-Heli.

For me, the + Platform really opened up a whole new world of gaming and game collecting, and being able to play these ancient cartridges on hardware that connects with ease is just one of the coolest gaming alternatives. One of my favourite things to do is to go out and hunt for Atari cartridges, and I've done this every chance I can get when exploring Melbourne or visiting any city in Australia. I'm often amazed to find some really good hauls in the most unlikely spots, and more often than not, I can get them at a pretty good price. If you're going to a retro game shop, chances are that the business owner will know what the games are worth, and so you want to head into pawn shops and thrift stores that are not gaming-specialised, where you are likely to find a random haul of old games that they'd rather get rid of quickly. Oh, and you can always count on your local Rotary Club op shop to give you the best possible deal on games! 

In my many hunting adventures, I've stumbled upon some really rare Atari games, especially when it comes to the North American releases that were released much later in the lifecycle of the original 2600 VCS console. One of my favourites is this copy of HERO, an adventure platformer that was truly ahead of its time. It was like Metroid before Metroid was even a thing. I was on a trip to Sydney and about to board the train to the airport to catch my return flight, when I suddenly had this weird hunch to check out a random pawn shop in Chinatown. 

I'm glad I listened to my sixth sense because the secondhand jewelry shop had a random assortment of cartridges tucked away in a corner. I think the owner was surprised that I was interested in buying these, and so I paid nearly nothing for them. My haul from there included the aforementioned HERO and lesser-known 2600 ports of Rampage and Double Dragon. HERO in particular is quite expensive and hard to find in Australia, and so it's the thrill of discovering these hidden gems in the wild (at a great price!) that makes Atari game hunting one of my favourite travel pastimes.